The Code of Minion
by KNO3
Summary: Crackfic. The henchmen of Gotham City have a code of conduct that keeps them alive- from both the Batman and their bosses. Features Batman and just about every other Rogue, supporting OCs doomed minions. No slash, no noncanon pairing. Mild language.


"So you're new to Gotham, huh?"

Danny O'Hara looked up quickly, just in time to catch a lukewarm bottle of Budweiser from the burly foreman. Said foreman was a mountain of fat and stubble squeezed into an XXLarge pair of overalls and a (probably stolen) Gotham State University coat. His fingers were fat sausages coated in curly hair; his breath reeked of alcohol and Altoids. O'Hara cringed as the foreman thumped him soundly on the back. These were desperate times.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"You know th' code?" the foreman demanded.

Danny looked down at the beer, avoiding eye contact with the man.

"Uh, code?"

"Yeah, the code," chimed in one of the other men, from the bed of the pickup. Danny didn't look up. That would be Zeke, a shirtless, homeless, mostly deodorant-less drifter who smelled like weed and was really only on the team because he'd survived an attack by Mr. Zsasz. Twice. "You know. If you work for the masks, ya gotta know th' code."

Danny looked quickly around the old warehouse. The other "team members"- Charlie, J.J., Li'l Jibblet, and three whose names he didn't know, were all staring at him with various expressions of concern, irritation, contempt, and amusement.

"Uh..."

"Give the man a break, Zeke," Charlie put in. "He hasn't been in the G.C. for a week. Probably isn't even his first big heist- ain't that right, rookie?"

"I drove for Mirror Master once," he supplied. Cue contemptuous laughter, and another joint lit up by Zeke.

"Yeah, okay, but you gotta know the score in Gotham," the foreman said. "It's sort of a, uh, survival guide. Ya know. Rules of life."

"Rules so ya don't get pounded into pulp by th' Bat," supplied Charlie.

"Or carved up by Zsaszzzzz," put in Zeke, licking his lips slowly and gruesomely.

"Or lit on fire by the Joker," J.J. said, displaying a long burn scar on his arm.

"Yeah, see, here's the deal," the foreman said. "We're all gonna end up in jail sooner or later. Fact o' life! But, ya play things right, you'll be out and on a team again within the year. I guarantee it."

"O-okay," Danny said, uncertainly. "So what is it?"

The foreman clapped a hand on the man's shoulder and pushed him backwards, onto a rough wooden crate. Danny winced briefly as a sharp staple caught his pants, but sat obligingly. The foreman produced a large, bright handkerchief and mopped his slick forehead.

"Okay. Pay attention. Rule number one."

* * *

1. STAY AWAY FROM HIGH PLACES

It was the foreman's first time as "Head Mook," and he wasn't about to blow it. For whatever reasons, Dr. Crane had put _him _in charge of the team's four strongest henchmen. Their job was simple: stall the Bat. They couldn't win, of course; nobody had any illusions about what would happen. Batman would show up, hand them their asses, and fly off into the night in pursuit of the Scarecrow. They just had to drag it out for as long as they could.

That was when the foreman got his first- and possibly only- brainwave. Instead of waiting for the Caped Crusader to surprise them in the dingy warehouse, they'd take the battle to the rooftop.

Bad, bad, BAD idea! Ten minutes and three very-near-fatalities later, the head foreman was groaning on the roof and swearing never, ever, to climb the fire escape again. First of all, Batman had a nasty, spine-crushing way of dropping in on people from above, and the lack of a skylight through which to burst didn't soften the blow at all. The foreman had been the first to go down. And having 250 pounds of raging vigilante dropped onto one's spinal column wasn't exactly a piece of pie.

Then the fight had started, and it turned out- Batman didn't really care if he killed them or not. Victor went flying from a Bat-power punch and over the side of the roof. Thank God there had been a fire escape below. But Bob and Kenny hadn't been so lucky. Being reasonable and semi-intelligent henchmen who knew how to use the environment to their advantage, they tried to push Batman over the edge. Bad move. He'd done some fancy Bat-jitsu and sent them both over instead- and never bothered to catch them. They'd ended up in the Dumpster below, hopefully un-pricked by syringes or broken glass or knives belonging to one of several resident psychos.

Yeah, Batman's one rule seemed to have an amendment: No killing, except for baddies dropped from high places.

Wincing and cursing in agony, the foreman climbed to his feet and headed for the nearest bar.

* * *

2. THE BOSS'S QUIRKS ARE NOT FUNNY

It had begun as a harmless joke.

Really, it was just too funny to pass up. Not only did Jervis Tetch speak in a ridiculously overdone British accent, he constantly rattled off retarded rhymes and quoted some "Alice" book whenever he got excited. Zeke had actually read the Alice book, once upon a time in grade school, and he knew, HE KNEW- that book was made on drugs. That Lewis Carroll dude? High as a kite. Just like him. That was the only reason, really, that he didn't join in the mocking. Because, seriously, Tetch's accent was pretty lame.

The other henchman would wait until Tetch was out of range and then speak in pretentious English accents.

"Hey! Joe! Why ain't you loaded the truck yet?" hollered the foreman.

"Because I don't bloody feel like et," Joe grinned, his accent starting in South London and quickly going Cockney. Everyone laughed like a bunch of retards, and someone chimed in:

"Oi dunno why we ain't all rech, seein' as we're workin fer Gran' Poohbah Tetch."

"Ah dunno why always rhyme," put in Rhino, a big, IQ-challenged mook who worked for Ventriloquist, mainly.

"Ya mean we rhyme, all th' freakin' time," said Joe, still in Cockney-speak. Then, suddenly, his eyes popped wide open and his pupils contracted to pin-pricks. He moved stiffly out of the way, and everyone suddenly noticed a small, top-hatted form in the shadows. They all saw the smile first-

"Dude!" Zeke shouted, his mind still buzzing from the last joint. "Tha's like, like the Chesssur Cat! Y'know, from the book!"

"Quite right," came Tetch's quiet, ridiculously British voice. "That's just earned you a reprieve, my good man. As for you..." he waved his hand in airy dismissal. "Kill them all. Off with his head! Off his with head! And be a good chap and hang yourself when you're done, will you? Just think of it as a dream, as the White Queen said... Oh, here's the knife. Try and make it _slow..._"

* * *

3. BUT THE JOKER'S JOKES ARE ALWAYS FUNNY

Working for the Joker was always a risk. The laughing villain found bloody murder absolutely hilarious, a definite problem for mooks whose boss's whole shtick revolved around comedy. He also had an alarmingly short attention span. Thirty minutes without an explosion, stabbing, car wreck, or violent death, and he started to get antsy. Sometimes he could be distracted by things like Snickers bars, the Marx Brothers, or a scantily clad Harley Quinn. More often, he would amuse himself by performing creative torture on his underlings.

Which led to the improv show.

Nobody on the Joker's current team of mooks had any comedic experience. So it made perfect sense that the Clown Prince of Crime would organize a stand-up comedy and improv show between them, with the loser going home in a body bag. Ronnie had been picked first, by reason of the fact that his name reminded Harley of Ronald McDonald and Ronald McDonald was a clown and Harley wanted a chocolate milkshake STAT! "Mr. J" gave her a chocolate-colored bruise instead and shoved Ronnie in front of the microphone.

He only knew one joke, and it was dirty, but he sweated through it anyway and retreated. Then it had been Bobby's turn, and Chubby's, and Rocko's, and Moe's. Halfway between "three rabbis- no, two rabbis and a, a, uh, a golfer- and Don Swayze" and a stammered "there once was a man from Nantucket," Joker lost interest and took the stand himself.

"_Gooood _evening, folks, and welcome to the show that nobody wants to see, but everyone will watch: JOKER'S LAFF-IN or LAFF-OFF (and I do mean 'off,' folks.) So you know, the other day I was a bus, and this, this lady gets in with a baby. And the driver says, 'Oh my _goodness, _that's the ugliest baby I've ever seen! Why don't you take that baby to plastic surgery; afraid there's nothing that can be done?' And the lady came and sat down right next to me and said, 'I've never been so angry! That bus driver just insulted me!' And I, I said, 'Why don't you go up there and tell him off? I'll hold your monkey!'"

The mooks all chuckled nervously, and Harley giggled.

"And she said, 'You horrible man! I think I will!'" the Joker continued. "So she gave me the little baby- and I'm not kidding you, folks, this was a really _ugly _baby- and walked up to the front. And so I decided, hey, the least I can do is make the baby smile. So I get my best knife, and fix him up good, and then- this is the funny part- then the mom walks back, and sees the baby, looking better than it ever did with her, and she says- 'OH my GOD! You've KILLED him!' AHAHAHAHAHA!"

Harley burst out laughing, and most of the men followed suit, albeit looking rather sick. Ronnie didn't. He was still too horrified to summon up a really good laugh, and suddenly he found the Joker's face unnervingly close to his own.

"Ronnie, I don't hear you _laughing," _the Joker said, in that playful, lighthearted tone that let everyone know _someone was about to die horribly._

Ronnie's face went white, white, and he tried to gulp out an excuse as the boss took out his gun. At least it was the gun and not the flower. Or the knife. He might be about to die, but at least it would be quick-

BANG!

Nothing happened, but Ronnie didn't open his eyes. He knew this, this was the famous 'Bang' gun, and he was about to have the flag halfway through his eye.

"Awwww, Ronnie, what's the matter? Aren't you happy to be alive? It was just a joke," the Joker said, sounding disappointed. "Phooey. He's already heard this one. Ah, well, if the audience doesn't like it, I say you should _make 'em laugh..."_

And Ronnie began to choke and sputter and chortle. The last thing he heard was the Joker's dark chuckles, mixed with the sound of his own uproarious, hilarious, gut-wrenching laughter...

* * *

4. NO GIRL IN COSTUME IS, OR WILL EVER BE, "IN THE MOOD"

Charlie was not drunk. Sure, he'd had a coupla... well, maybe more than a coupla... maybe a bottle or even, even _two _bottles... but he wasn't drunk! Nope! Not him! Lenny, he was drunk, and Harold, but that was just cause they were excited about makin' it in ta Gamma Eta. It was pretty simple, really; why didn't everyone try to join? You just had ta drink a bottle... no, two bottles of tequila, an' borrow a senior brother's car, an' hit on th' first women you saw. Oh, hey, women! Charlie liked women! Lenny had the camera all ready, and Harold had hotwired a shiny red convertible.

"Don'... don' tell Ed about this," Harold grinned, his words slurring a little. "Not till we're done, okay?"

"Okay, man. You got it," Charlie said, and he couldn't help grinning too. This was fun!

"First women we see, right man?" Lenny said. "Here, look. We can put it on YouTube."

"Put that shit away. Hey, Harold, watch it, you like, almost hit that car back there... you almost hit that _cop _car back there..."

Somehow, they made it to the expressway, turned right... somewhere... and headed for what Harold assured them was the red-light district. No problem there!

"Hey, shithead, watch the light," Lenny called, and Harold hit the brakes just in time. Lenny had his head over the side, looking back behind them, and he suddenly lit up. "Hey, guys, here come some hookers! They're, like, all costumed up, too!"

"Wait, what?" Even with alcohol soaking his brain, Charlie could recognize a bad idea. "Who are they? Sure they're... hookers?"

"Oh... YEAH! Yeah, I'm sure. Here they come! Camera's rolling! Say something sweet!"

A tricked-out pink convertible pulled up next to the Gamma Eta car, with two hookers dressed as Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn in the front seat. Lenny was the first to act.

"Well, HELLLOOOO!" he yelled, with a big wave. He elbowed Charlie hard in the ribs.

"I think I'm in love!" Charlie called, adding an expressive kissing sound.

"A-WOOGA, A-WOOGA!" Harold put in, and Lenny, his normally lax inhibitions completely removed by the tequila, added a long and ridiculous wolf call.

The one dressed as Poison Ivy pouted sultrily at them- oh yeah, definitely a hooker- and said,

"Didn't your mommies tell you that's not the nice way to get a lady's attention?"

"What are you gonna do, _spank _us?" Lenny grinned, shoving his rear over the side of the car and demonstrating the spanking motion.

"That's right, pigs!" the Harley-Quinn-hooker snapped. "And here's the paddle!"

As if in slow motion, Charlie saw something big and black coming up over the side of the car. Hey, that almost looked like... like... was that a _bazooka?_ His survival instincts suddenly kicked in, and all three frat boys exited the vehicle with various yelps of terror. Behind them, the car exploded. There was no nice way to put it; a flaming fireball of female fury slammed into the side of the car, and it flew at least... at least two stories in the air. The light abruptly turned green, and the pink convertible screeched through the intersection and away into the night.

"Aw, _shit," _Lenny said.

BAM! Their own convertible landed nose-down in front of them, looking like a used prop from a Transformers destruction montage, and toppled onto its side.

"Ya know," Harold put in, as if suddenly realizing something, "Ya know... I don't think those were hookers."

* * *

5. GOING THE EXTRA MILE NEVER PAYS (WHEN FIGHTING BATMAN).

Li'l Jibblet was excited, ohhhh yes he was excited.

He'd been angling with Big T-Raz for weeks now- "Lemme hang whichu, jus once, jus one time. Jus lemme havea _op-por-tun-it-y, _bro." "Now you know, I know you's rolling in the big Zs, you jus so much as _call _me I be right there, jus lemme know." And finally- "I do _anything _to get in, anythin a-tall. C'mon, T-Raz, you wouldn't keep me out in da cold, wouldyou? C'mon, man, you _owe _me one." And finally, FINALLY, T-Raz had relented. Showed him the house, introduced him to the big boss! Well, one of the bosses, at least. False Facers, you never could tell, but you didn't need to worry 'bout that, just needed to do what you was told.

And th' boss, the big boss, he'd looked over Li'l Jibblet and said: "He'll do." Aw, _man! _Cuz Li'l Jibblet knew, even though the boss wasn't sayin, he was impressed. He knew a hardworkin' soldier when he saw one; he saw Li'l Jibblet had what it took. That's what he meant. And he gave Li'l Jibblet a job too, his first real part in the op-er-a-tion. Guard de do', he said, don't let nobody past de do'.

Li'l Jibblet could handle that; he could handle way more'n that. But he had this figured; he had to start from the bottom, work his way up, tha's the way it works. Wanna move up, you make an impression. Shit! He was excited. He hoped someone would show, then he could KO the guy and walk in, all cool and calm, like it was nothin'- "Oh yeah, T-Raz, forgot to say, some shithead tried walkin' in and I had ta punch him out." Yeah. That's what he'd say. And they'd all look at him, like, "Shit, man, that Jibblet, he going up in th' world."

Li'l Jibblet grinned to himself and paced the alley outside the warehouse door. For sure, he was heading up in the world. All he had to do was-

Something skittered in the alley behind him, and Li'l Jibblet whirled around, nervously pulling out the gun he'd borrowed from his brother's shoebox. Can't be too careful, can't be-

BAM! Something bit him on the hand. No, something hit him, something metal, and stuck into his hand, and he'd dropped the gun already, too excited, but he knew who was in the shadows now, and his heart was, damn, racing like crazy-

"Nice gun," came a voice, a white boy's voice, from the shadows. "Now look, uh, why don't you scoot while I break in? Just, y'know, take a mulligan on this one." The vigilante stepped out, and Li'l Jibblet's eyes narrowed. It was the one in black and blue, Nightwing or summat, his black hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Li'l Jibblet could grab that hair, make the guy scream. This could be good- even better than some random junkie breaking in. Build his rep forever.

"Only thing I'm takin' is your belt," Li'l Jibblet said, trying to make his voice sound deep and intimidating. He reached for the switchblade in his pocket and pulled it out. "C'mon, now."

WHAM! He never even saw the guy coming, he was just slammed against the building. Most guys would have given it up them, but Li'l Jibblet was determined. He picked himself up, spitting blood, and charged the vigilante. Nightwing grabbed his wrist and threw him.

Shit that hurt. Li'l Jibblet rolled over, choking a little, and got up again. No way he was lettin' this guy by. He pulled his arm back and threw the switchblade at Nightwing, charging at the same time. Stupid shit tried to dodge the blade, and Li'l Jibblet tackled him and started punching. And then Nightwing's foot came up and kicked the gangster right in the...

Stars exploded across his vision, and Li'l Jibblet toppled slowly, first to his knees, then sitting, then falling over. The vigilante stepped over him. With his last measure of determination, Li'l Jibblet reached out and grabbed his foot.

Next thing he knew, he was on his back with a white light shining in his eyes. Hospital. The doctor came in, talkin' all phony and shit, and said something something about the insurance. He didn't have no insurance, told the doctor that. Three weeks' rest, set the bone in plaster, stitches and shit- he couldn't pay for that shit. No problem. He could call T-Raz.

Three weeks later, walking with a padded splint and a seven-thousand-dollar doctor's bill, Li'l Jibblet accosted T-Raz in the street.

"Hey, man, what the hell? I been in the hospital, why ain't you picked up the phone?"

T-Raz shrugged.

"Been busy. Business, you know."

"Business? Oh yeah, forgot to tell you- I got a little business expense right here." Li'l Jibblet thrust the paper at his friend. "Frickin' hospital, and you ain't never been to see me. Better pay that shit, or the boss better, I'm out seven grand."

T-Raz whistled.

"Shit. But he ain't paying, bro."

"What?"

"He ain't payin'. Pull crazy shit like that, you pay your own bills. Naw, I know, I know. Just doing yer job, right man? Heard it all before. Can't pull crazy shit like that, bro, you wind up in the hospital. But, uh, don' worry 'bout it. I got somethin' new going on, I can cut you in for three, four grand a month. Just gotta wear some stupid clown mask for a robbery..."

* * *

6. NEITHER DOES HOLDING ROBIN HOSTAGE

Charlie snickered, adjusting the taped handle of his sawed-off against his belly. So this was the famous Robin. A little boy in tights and pixie boots, so young he'd still be in middle school... if he even went to school. So small the high back of the chair they'd tied him to protruded a good foot over his shoulders. They'd left the mask on, as per Mr. Nigma's instructions- nobody wanted a repeat of the hook incident after Bobby tried to peek under Batman's mask- and just stood in a loose circle around the boy. Half of them had guns aimed at him, the other half stared out into the darkness. They even had it staggered and had positions, just like they'd practiced. Just like Mr. Nigma'd planned.

"You're not going to get away with this," Robin said. His voice was high and young, and Charlie felt a brief, alarming stab of sympathy. Poor kid. Since when did middle schoolers run around in costumes in the middle of the night and end up full of bullet holes in the morning? Charlie looked away, forcing his thoughts away from the boy in the chair.

The floor was booby-trapped. Sure, it looked like bare, dusty boards, but Nigma had run wires and sensors and... stuff... all over the place. Batman wouldn't make it two steps without getting electrocuted, stabbed, dropped down a hole, or riddled with bullets. Ha ha. Charlie had come up with that one all on his own. Course, the Riddler had threatened to "bludgeon him to death with his own dull wit" if he made the joke one more time...

"Really, I'd think you learn by now," Robin said, and his voice was eerily calm. Charlie looked back at him.

"Whatchu talking about?"

"I mean..." Robin shrugged and looked around the room, his eyes large and bright under the mask. "It's not exactly original. Kidnapping me, sending a message to Batman... I bet the room is booby-trapped, isn't it?"

"What makes you think that?" Charlie grunted.

Robin shrugged again, looking like a kid called out in class.

"Well, it is the Riddler," he pointed out. "And I mean, you're just going to get pounded extra hard when Batman gets here."

"Shut up, kid."

"No, I mean it. It's like, friendly advice."

"Why's that?" one of the other men put in, with a nasty smile. "You something special to him?"

Robin thought for a minute and nodded.

"I think so. He's sort of my dad."

BOOM! The ceiling overhead exploded in a cloud of burning wood and thick, foul-smelling smoke, and Charlie had just time to see something dark and heavy swoop down through the fire before something clocked him under the chin and he lost his balance and then there was pain as Batman professionally, ruthlessly, subjected Charlie to the most thorough one-sided boxing match of his life.  
Charlie couldn't even get a shot in sideways. Later, he'd describe it like "being beat up by four men, all at once, from all sides, 'cept you can't see any of 'em or do a damn thing about it." Finally, staggering backwards, Charlie received one last crushing blow and toppled over, away from the Batman. Directly onto what looked like bare, dusty boards, but Nigma had run wires and sensors and... stuff...

Charlie woke up in a prison infirmary, his ribs taped, both legs in splints, and the roof of his mouth tasting like lightning. Across the room, the other five goons lay in beds, all in similar condition.

A fat, balding middleaged man in a white coat came in, sliding his thick glasses up his nose as he stared at an over-clipped clipboard. He looked up, saw the men, and shook his head. He made an annoying tsk-tsk sound with his tongue, and Charlie wanted to hit him.

"Let me guess," the doctor said. "You tried to hold Robin hostage, didn't you?"

* * *

A/N: So, I wrote this on a whim about three months ago and finally decided to post it. There may be more, IDK if it's too wordy or whatnot or if people want more. Hit the button marked "Review" to vote "More please"; leave the story to vote "Enough, thanks."


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